A man who fought at the front of the group would be scarred. The flesh melting like water and the fingers evaporating like cigarettes smoked away to be later regrown. The facial features crudely reattached until they resembled an abstract painting. Intestines slurped back into the body as the magic simulated the vomiting action and caused them to contract just quickly enough to avoid being caught as the wound closed itself. The Gods gave man Clerical healing because they thought he had it too easy.
This occurred to Artaud where he lay on the floor of the tomb. They were on the third level and something had come through the door. He had broken his leg and fallen much further than the distance from his head to the floor. He didn't remember much after that except flashes before his gaze. The feeling of flight.
Artaud lay still and readjusted himself to a world where the homunculus that mapped his perceptions and the physical reality of his body were close enough that he could flex his fingers and roll on his side and, with luck, try to stand. He knew that with sufficient repetition there were some for whom that adjustment, those flexing fingers would never come. Convinced that their arms were not their own. That they were dead.
A shape occluded the light from the Fire Beetle staked to the wall. A hulking shape wrapped in full-body brigandine like a stuffed doll. A kettle pulled low over the eyes. On her shield, an epigram writ in a circle around the bloodstained image of the Knacker.
I WANT TO FEEL YOU
SMASH YOUR FACE
Artaud remembered that this was Rakia. She had dragged him away from the battle and now she crouched to hold a hand in front of his face, testing whether his eyes could follow her gloved finger. He had a vivid image of her eating a part of him while he was unconscious. A nose or ear, some piece he wouldn't miss when it sprouted whole again from the stump after she Laid Hands on him. Was it already severed, or did she cut it off with the butcher's knife?
She licked her lips, the only part of her body visible and exposed. He was certain she had done it. That one of the pieces attached to him was no longer original. Had been replaced. He tried to stand and was rebuffed by the Cleric. She let him sit up only as far as necessary to force feed him a cup of the strong, sweet beer she carried in a metal jug on her hip. To drown the tongue she had forced into his mouth.
This occurred to Artaud where he lay on the floor of the tomb. They were on the third level and something had come through the door. He had broken his leg and fallen much further than the distance from his head to the floor. He didn't remember much after that except flashes before his gaze. The feeling of flight.
Artaud lay still and readjusted himself to a world where the homunculus that mapped his perceptions and the physical reality of his body were close enough that he could flex his fingers and roll on his side and, with luck, try to stand. He knew that with sufficient repetition there were some for whom that adjustment, those flexing fingers would never come. Convinced that their arms were not their own. That they were dead.
A shape occluded the light from the Fire Beetle staked to the wall. A hulking shape wrapped in full-body brigandine like a stuffed doll. A kettle pulled low over the eyes. On her shield, an epigram writ in a circle around the bloodstained image of the Knacker.
I WANT TO FEEL YOU
SMASH YOUR FACE
Artaud remembered that this was Rakia. She had dragged him away from the battle and now she crouched to hold a hand in front of his face, testing whether his eyes could follow her gloved finger. He had a vivid image of her eating a part of him while he was unconscious. A nose or ear, some piece he wouldn't miss when it sprouted whole again from the stump after she Laid Hands on him. Was it already severed, or did she cut it off with the butcher's knife?
She licked her lips, the only part of her body visible and exposed. He was certain she had done it. That one of the pieces attached to him was no longer original. Had been replaced. He tried to stand and was rebuffed by the Cleric. She let him sit up only as far as necessary to force feed him a cup of the strong, sweet beer she carried in a metal jug on her hip. To drown the tongue she had forced into his mouth.
No comments:
Post a Comment